We call and write our friends more now that there is a glimpse of mortality on the horizon and the time to think about it. But the paradox to this newfound closeness is that we cannot express our connection in the physical world.
If we do, we fear that it is a matter of life and death, and that we could be responsible for hurting the people we care about through carelessness. Distance is stranger than we could have imagined.
Close friends stand apart as if in a lovers’ quarrel. Confusingly, if we move ever so little closer and that person steps away, it rings all the wrong bells. Though measured in feet, the gulf is like a bottomless canyon. This goes against our nature. We smile behind our masks whether we are wearing them or not.
We are used to being next to each other at a parties. Maybe we clink our glasses together. Someone passes and says hi. We squeeze through to get to the cheese plate. Our coats are in piles. Not now.
When friends meet in normal times, we shake hands, hug, air-kiss, and wonder if one kiss is right, or is it two? Those of us who live alone but depend on friends for the lifting effect of human proximity may have an even tougher time yet not even be able to put a finger on why. A man I know, working from his tiny apartment, told me that the refrigerator humming just behind his chair seems like the only friend he has.
We are all in this together, but isolated nonetheless. This is a terrible thing, to be afraid to even casually touch another person who is just as afraid to touch you.
This too will end, we believe, and when it does we will be able to make up for lost time? Those nights when we think we are too tired to join a group for drinks -- will we make the effort? Go for a walk? Get a cup of coffee together? Will this isolation finally teach us to grab time as it races past? I hope it does.